


Caught In My Sweat

by GoforthAndConquer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But not explicit, Established Relationship, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sexual Content, Sherlock is a disco queen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoforthAndConquer/pseuds/GoforthAndConquer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John learns something new about Sherlock's musical preferences.</p><p>Songs referenced include:</p><p>"Any Which Way," "Filthy/Gorgeous," & "Harder You Get" - Scissor Sisters<br/>"Body Talk" - Imagination</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught In My Sweat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gramarye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gramarye/gifts), [CaracalGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaracalGirl/gifts).



The Tuesday of March 22nd had proved uneventful. The day had been muggy, but not wet, the people in the tube had been hurried, but not stressed, and the most recent bit of excitement was the injuries to two Man Utd defenders. After combating seven hours of runny noses and highly inaccurate diagnoses via WebMD, John Watson was looking forward to retiring that evening with a cup of strong tea and a few hours of Jeeves & Wooster. He walked up the steps to 221B, humming beneath his breath as he entered the foyer of the building. It was only upon approaching the stairs that he first heard it: the upbeat, synth chords that jumped and jived in a way that could only be described as “groovy.”

He stopped, frowning. John had seen some considerably strange things since his arrival at 221B Baker street. He had met with more than his share of disembodied limbs, exotic animals, biochemical hazards, and experiments gone awry. He had also been privy to Gregorian monk chants, strings of morse code, and the pained caterwauling of Sherlock’s violin.

That being said, he never expected to hear disco.

Shaking it off, John resolutely walked up the stairs, hesitating only a moment before opening the door to his flat. The music was cranked to full volume, thumping against the walls with the strength of the bass.

_Dancing on the speakers, are you peaking with tweakers  
Bigger, tanner breeders on the scene_

John narrowed his eyes, scanning the flat, which was in its usual disarray. Sherlock had not had a case in over a week and the living space reflected his frustration. Papers were scattered across every available surface; there was a jar with a preserved baby marmoset on one of the bookshelves between Apiology: Lectures and a thesis on the role of temporary cavity on cranial backspatter.

_The night don't last forever, so get your shit together  
Open arms are never what they seem_

He stepped further into the flat, still frowning. It’s not that he minded the disco in itself. He was actually a secret fan of Imagination (he had been around more than his share of flashy discos during his stint at uni and had snogged more than a few girls (and guys) to Body Talk) and had been on his tour in Afghanistan when he heard that Scissor Sisters were taking a UK tour. He had told the other lads in his unit that it was a bloody shame that he couldn’t see Lily Allen in person, which had them nodding sagely. It was a much more expected admission than saying John Hamish Watson of the the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers was a disco fan.

“Sherlock?” He called out over the music. The old stereo was perched in the center of the sofa, squeezed between the Union Jack pillow and a stack of medical journals, unashamed of the music that was pouring from its speakers.

_I don't need a doctor just a simple love concocter  
To slide to my side so civilly_

“Sherlock?” He yelled again. John was already snapping his fingers to the beat and couldn’t be buggered to care. “Sherlock, are you here?”

He turned to walk into the kitchen, finally getting a full view into the adjoining room, and found himself stopping in his tracks for the second time that day. It’s not that he wasn’t used to Sherlock’s strangeness. The man had once managed to tape himself to the ceiling with duct tape to determine whether the unusual lividity on the corpse was due to suspension. As it turned out, it did explain the man’s slow suffocation, resulting in John peeling his flatmate from the ceiling before the prat had lost total consciousness. Even after they had discussed and decided to pursue a relationship of a romantic nature (he used the word discussed lightly, as Sherlock had cornered him after a night of chasing the latest suspect, straddled his lap, and informed him that he was interested in oral sex and “monogamy, I suppose, as the buttons on your lapel suggest your naturally possessive nature” and, while he certainly was pleased with the results, it had been done with Sherlock’s usual subtlety), John had not expected Sherlock to change whatsoever. But, regardless of Sherlock’s flighty moods and manic obsessions and disregard for cleanliness, godliness, or other people entirely, John was still not prepared to see Sherlock hunched over the kitchen table and peering into his microscope. 

Alright, that particular pose he was entirely prepared to see. However, he was not expecting to see Sherlock’s hips rocking back and forth, swaying his whole body to the heavy beat. Had it been any other person, John would have called it dancing.

_Oh I want you to funk me  
Your battleship has sunk me ___

John watched, utterly bewitched. Sherlock seemed oblivious to his presence, his spine sinuous with his movements. His hips snapped with the beat, pausing only a moment when the song changed, the lyrics proclaiming _I'm a classy honey kissy huggy lovey dovey ghetto princess_ and Sherlock was actually singing the words beneath his breath while his shoulders _shimmied_ and John was struggling not to have a lust-induced aneurysm in the middle of the kitchen. 

“Oh, John, you’re home,” Sherlock said, adjusting the specimen stage, tapping out the rhythm on the fine focus knob. “Hand me the bottle of flourescein. It’s the small blue bottle in the third cabinet. Whatever you do, _do not_ mistake it with the indigo bottle. That would cause a catastrophic chemical reaction that would... anyway, get it for me.” 

John blinked a few times, but Sherlock did not stop dancing and he was still stuck between confusion and arousal (which was not unusual where Sherlock was concerned). Swallowing, he shuffled over to the third cabinet, inspected the two nearly identical bottles carefully, before moving back to Sherlock and placing the blue bottle in that pale, waiting hand. Sherlock moved from the microscope long enough to stain the slide before slipping it back on the stage and refocusing on the specimen. 

“If I can just determine the viability of these saprophytic mycobacterial cells...” Sherlock trailed off, having seemingly dismissed John. 

“Uhh, right,” John replied, glancing back and forth before frowning again. “I’m sorry, you like disco?" 

Sherlock made a dismissive sound (in all fairness, nearly all the sounds he made could be characterized as such). “I don’t understand how that’s relevant.” 

“Mostly because you’re currently listening to disco.” 

“A minor detail.” 

“Sherlock,” John began, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I am in our flat, the flat where we have resided for some months now, and never - ever - have I heard you play anything that was composed in the last century, much less something that usually involves glitter and spandex.” 

Sherlock snorted. “Are you referring to your own experiences? I imagine the boys down at Stallions were beside themselves when you retired from the scene." 

“You are being purposefully difficult.” 

“You are being purposefully obtuse.” 

“Are you saying-” John leaned closer “-that the great Sherlock Holmes, world’s only consulting detective, who can play Paganini’s Caprice no. 24 by memory and without a misstep, genuinely enjoys disco music?” 

Sherlock’s whole body went suddenly still, before starting to sway again, seemingly unable to help himself. “I find that the syncopated bass line and infusion of Latin influences-” 

“My God, you really do,” John wondered aloud. “You are mad about disco. You probably have all the Pet Shop Boys records, don’t you? Know all the words to MacArthur Park.” 

“I’ll have you know that disco does have intricate nuances, particularly in the use of synthesizers-” 

“God, that’s sexy.” 

“-that indicates a complex musicality that - what?” Sherlock lifted his head finally, pinning him with those sea-glass eyes. 

_Cause you're filthy Oooh, and I'm gorgeous_

“I said,” John said around a smile, trailing a hand up Sherlock’s spine, watching the rippling shudder follow his fingers, “that is entirely, completely, and utterly sexy-" 

“You’re adding a few non-gradable adverbs-” 

“-and I feel like shagging you at this very kitchen table,” John finished, letting his thumb settle at the base of Sherlock’s throat, the rapid stutter of his pulse against his thumbprint. 90bpm and rising. 

“I-” Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttered slightly, trying to discreetly push the microscope away even as pink flooded his cheeks. “I suppose I would be amenable to that.” 

“Good to hear.” John leaned over, pressing against the long length of Sherlock’s body which was still moving to the music despite everything, and kissed the shell of his lover’s ear. “Because I’m filthy and you’re gorgeous.” 

Sherlock’s nails scraped the table; his back arched. “T-that’s not how the lyrics go.” 

“Is that so? Well, I’m ready to dance,” John murmured, his fingers threading through that mess of curls, catching Sherlock’s moan in his mouth, “if you’re ready to sing.” 

_No words are spoken, the only sound we hear is body talk, body talk_


End file.
